The Frontiersman Part 13

"As a medical man, I have studied most carefully the simple remedies used by the Indians in their treatment of diseases. Though at first I found them mingled with superst.i.tion, and gross rites, yet I have discovered the beneficial properties contained in the common roots and herbs which surround us. It was Nathaniel Hawthorne, you remember, who said about old Roger Chillingworth that,

"'In his Indian captivity, he had gained much knowledge of the property of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating.'"

"I don't remember the words," Constance responded, "but I have read about that terrible man, Roger Chillingworth. It's in 'The Scarlet Letter,' is it not?"

"Yes, and the words appealed to me so strongly that years ago, when a student at college, I learned them by heart.

"Well, as I was saying, I have made several important additions to my stock of knowledge while among the Indians. But there is one medicine which is a great secret, into which I have never been admitted. Its preparation is known only to a few. There are certain traditions connected with it why the knowledge must not be divulged. It is formed of roots and herbs of some kind, and is used only on the rarest occasions. Twice I have seen the medicine administered, and each time with marvellous results. Now, your father needs some special treatment, for his symptoms are very similar to the man I saw cured. I think I have influence enough to obtain the remedy for him. Will you trust me?"

Constance gave a start, and a look of fear came into her face.

"Do you think my father is as bad as that?" she asked.

"Yes, I am afraid so, and it is important that you should leave this place, and go back to your comfortable cabin at Kla.s.san. Pete will take you, and in two weeks' time I think your father will be able to stand the journey, if great care is used. Will you consent to this?"

For a while Constance did not answer, and Keith knew she was weighing everything most carefully, and struggling for self-control.

"Mr. Steadman," she calmly replied, holding out her hand, "I feel I can trust you, so please do whatever you think is best."

Keith took her hand in his own strong one, and held it for an instant, as he looked into her brave face. Neither spoke for a time, but into each heart crept a joy, like a pure, fresh, dew-touched flower, tucked away in some hidden dell, with only the eye of G.o.d resting upon it.

An hour later Keith drew away from Siwash Creek for his long run to Kla.s.san. The dogs bounded merrily over the snow, shaking their little bells, glad of the race in the keen, frosty air. Keith could hardly believe it possible that such a short time before he had plodded over that same trail, weary and sick at heart. A new life now possessed him, and he sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of old songs and hymns, cheered the dogs, and at times laughed aloud at the mere joy of living.

But the travelling was hard, and the second day had closed before the lights of Kla.s.san gleamed in the distance. The dogs were tired as they drew near the village, with their master trudging wearily behind, urging them on with words of encouragement. The trail ran close by Perdue's store, and the animals, hearing voices within, paused before the door, while the leader cast a backward glance at the missionary.

The only answer he received to his appealing look was the command to "mush on," for Keith had no intention of halting there. He had advanced but a few yards, however, when the report of a revolver fell upon his ears, then a cry of pain, and a confused noise within the building. Suddenly the door was flung open, and a number of men rushed out, and stood huddled together in a little group, talking in the most excited manner.

Feeling sure that something was wrong, Keith left his dogs and retraced his steps to where the men were gathered.

"It's hard luck for the kid," he heard one say. "He was a sharp 'un, and we'll miss him."

"My G.o.d! it's a bad rap, that," replied another. "But he pulled his gun first, when he thought Bill was cheating, though he was too late, and there he lies."

"D'ye think it'll fix 'im?" asked another.

"Fix him, man! Did ye see the hole bored into him, and the blood spoutin' out? Wouldn't that fix any one?"

Keith waited to hear no more, but quickly turned and entered the building. A pathetic sight met his view. Lying on the floor was a young man surrounded by several miners, who were vainly trying to staunch a stream of blood which was oozing from the fallen man's neck.

Keith grasped the situation in an instant. He saw that something more had to be done, and that at once.

"Boys," he said, moving near, "that man will soon bleed to death if you don't do more than that."

"What in h-- do you know about it?" came a surly response, and, glancing quickly around, Keith looked into the scowling face of Pritchen, with his revolver still in his hand. He was standing in a defiant att.i.tude, with his back to the wall, as if expecting an attack for the deed he had committed. But there was nothing for him to fear, as the youth, Joe Simkins, one of his own gang, had pulled his gun first. It was only an act of self-defence, and this the miners well knew.

It was a certain relief to Keith to see Pritchen standing there, and to know that Jennie had not carried out her design. But he had little time to think about it now. Stern work was on hand, and must be attended to without delay.

"I know this much," Keith replied, looking Pritchen straight in the eyes, "that if something isn't done for this man, and done at once, you will have another life to answer for at the Judgment Day, and it is not a poor, helpless Indian woman this time, either."

Stung to the quick by these words, spoken so deliberately by the man he bitterly hated, with an oath, Pritchen grasped his revolver more firmly than ever. His face was livid with rage, and his teeth ground together. Just when the miners expected to see another dead or wounded man in their midst, the weapon was suddenly dropped into its case, and, without a word, Pritchen left the building.

Silence reigned for a short time in the room, and the men looked at one another, and then at Keith. Twice now had they seen him and Pritchen meet, and each time there had been a scene, and blood narrowly averted.

What power the missionary had over the boasting bully, they could not understand, and sought for an explanation of the mystery through many a long evening's conversation in the seclusion of their own cabins.

"Boys," said Keith, breaking the brief silence, "I am a medical man, as well as a missionary, so if you will lift this poor fellow on to the table, perhaps I can do something for him."

Without a word they obeyed, and stood quietly by as he examined the wound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood.

"Close call, that," they heard him say. "Concussion. The ball's in here yet; it must come out."

Presently he turned and looked toward Perdue. "Haven't you a private corner somewhere for this chap?" he asked.

The saloonkeeper's face was surly. "I don't want him here," he replied. "It's not my funeral. Why should I be bothered with him?"

Keith stared at him in amazement. He could hardly believe it possible that any one could be so hardened to human suffering. Before he could speak, an old man, with white hair and s.h.a.ggy beard, stepped up to Perdue.

"You brute!" he roared. "You desarve to be strung up to the nearest tree. Ye're jist like most of yer set; ye strip us of our c.h.i.n.k, and manhood, and when we've nothin' left ye fire us out. I've a son somewhar, G.o.d bless'm, and fer his sake this poor chap'll come to my cabin. B'ys, if y'll bear him tenderly, I'll lead the way. Will that do, sir?" he concluded, turning to the missionary.

"Just the thing," replied Keith, "and while you carry him, I'll slip over to my cabin for my instruments and bandages."

CHAPTER XII

THE UPLIFT

"Mother!"

What more common and beautiful word than this, a mere symbol, the outward expression of the child heart within each of us. At any time it is full of deep meaning, but how greatly intensified when repeated by some suffering one in the dim morning hours, when "the cas.e.m.e.nt slowly grows a glimmering square."

"Mother!"

Keith bent over the quiet form on the rude bunk. For hours he had anxiously awaited some sign of consciousness, and while the old man with the white hair slept on the floor, rolled up in his one blanket, he had kept watch.

"Mother, are you there?" and Joe's hand reached out into the air.

"Hush," soothed Keith. "You are safe, so go to sleep."

Joe opened his eyes and fixed them upon the missionary in a dreamy sort of a way, then closed them again, and soon pa.s.sed off into a peaceful slumber.

Steadily the wounded man recovered under the careful treatment he received. The blankness, caused by the concussion, which at the first enwrapped his mind, rolled away as a dark cloud vanishes from the mountain's brow. Keith was much with him during the first few days.

He knew the importance of keeping his mind filled with fresh, bright thoughts, and not allowing him to brood upon Pritchen and the terrible scene at the saloon. He told him stories of his experience among the Indians, and many of their quaint ways. At times Joe would laugh heartily at some amusing incident, and eagerly ask for more. Often Keith read to him a story from a book or an old magazine, and when it was finished they would discuss it together.

On such occasions, Sol Burke, the old man who owned the cabin, was always an earnest listener. He seldom spoke, but would lean forward, as if drinking in every word, and puff away steadily at his strong black pipe. "Caribou" Sol, the name by which he was generally known, was not the only one interested in these tales. Others drifted into the shack, and listened too, strapping fellows, some of them, who would remain very still while the story continued. It was in their own cabins where they gave vent to their feelings.

"By gar," said one brawny chap, "that was a crack-a-jack yarn the parson read to-day. It tickled me, it did, about that Trotty, and his daughter. Wasn't she a brick?"

"And did ye see Sol when he read about the chap wid the kid in his arms?" asked another.